


Down in the River to Pray

by planetarypoe



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Christianity, First Kiss, M/M, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 11:56:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12035391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetarypoe/pseuds/planetarypoe
Summary: Baze had said once that he liked water – oceans and rivers and lakes, anything that made youfeel. He thought it was a product of growing up in the middle of an island, when every direction pulled you to the sea, an innate love and fascination for a place you'd never seen but were surrounded by. An inevitability, or something.Well. What he'd actually said was, “I like the canal.” Chirrut had managed to infer the rest from that.





	Down in the River to Pray

**Author's Note:**

> This is an excerpt from a cathedral choir AU I'll probably never finish. This part's been stuck in my head for weeks, though, and I wanted it in the world.

Baze had said once that he liked water – oceans and rivers and lakes, anything that made you _feel_. He thought it was a product of growing up in the middle of an island, when every direction pulled you to the sea, an innate love and fascination for a place you'd never seen but were surrounded by. An inevitability, or something. 

Well. What he'd actually said was, “I like the canal.” Chirrut had managed to infer the rest from that.

Jedha was closer to the sea than where Baze grew up, but the train was still too expensive, and they were too young anyway to be allowed that far on their own. 

But the canal was there. It was small. It was slow. It was artificial. But it was water.

“I don't see how anyone could stand here,” said Chirrut, as the pair leaned over the railings along the bank, “and not believe in God.”

Baze didn't move, eyes fixed, squinting against the sunset dancing on the water. 

“Go on,” he said.

Chirrut straightened up, and used the reverent voice he used when he was talking about something he cared about a lot. 

“Well, water, on its own, is not powerful. But think about all the power it has in our world. We need it, to survive, but it can kill too, from floods or droughts. And it's just... life. “From our innermost beings will flow rivers of living water.”” He sighed. “Maybe miracles don't have to be resurrection. Maybe a miracle is a liquid with the power to wear away stone. Or God surrounding us with what we need to live. Or maybe a miracle is this sunset, rippling on this river, just for us to see how beautiful the world can be. How He loves us.”

In the quiet following this, Baze considered Chirrut's words. “This water didn't wear away any stone. It was made.”

Chirrut smiled. “The canal was made. But the water still gives life. That's a miracle.”

“You're a miracle,” said Baze's mouth, without asking permission from his brain. 

Fuck. 

Before he could even think about taking it back, or saying something else, or pretending it never happened, Chirrut turned to him. His face glowed with the pink light and the surprise, stunning against the golden-red sky. Baze rose to meet him, aware in a way that felt like burning how close their faces were now, how their eyes were locked and wouldn't leave each other's. When Chirrut took a step forwards, he forgot how to breathe, feeling the whisper of air over his lips as he stared into his eyes. 

And then Chirrut's lips were on his. They were soft, and dry, and Baze didn't know what to do, couldn't move. He realised his eyes were still open. Chirrut's were closed, now, and his lips were still, and _on Baze's_.

Then Chirrut gently moved away a little, opening his eyes. He laughed at Baze's expression, but his chuckles were muffled when Baze took his shoulder and pulled him back in. This time, their lips locked, and moved, and they were kissing. They were kissing! Baze slid his hands to hold Chirrut's face, and shivered in delight as Chirrut's hands found his waist.

And for the rest of Baze's life, no choir, no orchestra, would ever make music as sweet as the sound of Chirrut's heartbeat, the rustling of his hair as Chirrut tangled his hands in it, and the chattering of the water in the canal, singing their song.


End file.
